


Without You

by madeleinefs



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Anorexia, Big Brother Mycroft, Brotherly Love, Bulimia, Doctor John Watson, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Grieving John, Grieving Sherlock, Heavy Angst, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Sorry, Mycroft Has An Eating Disorder, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Mycroft-centric, Other, POV Mycroft Holmes, Rehabilitation, Sad, Sad Ending, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 03:48:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13355862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeleinefs/pseuds/madeleinefs
Summary: Post Sherrinford, Mycroft deals with having nearly died by Sherlock. His eating disorder resurfaces--and it's bad.I'm sorry, this is sad.Medical terminology may be off.





	Without You

**Author's Note:**

> Huge trigger warning--Bulimia. Graphic descriptions.

\---

 

 _Kein Berg den ich nichttzt hab_  
Zog jede Chance an den Haaren herbei  
Für ein lebenlang zu Leben  
So wild und so frei 

Hurts|Ohne Dich 

 

\---

 

Holmes killing Holmes. Of course, Mycroft had deduced it immediately. The end intent. Sherlock would die before ever letting harm come to John, and in the case of Euros forcing Sherlock to chose for her study of the her brother’s psyche, Sherlock would pick John. 

He would always pick John. 

Mycroft had never prided himself in being likable--he wasn’t, and he didn’t aim to be. He was brilliant and powerful and in control.

Always. 

Caring was not an advantage, no, but not even Mycroft was unsusceptible. He cared. More than he would ever let on, of course, but he cared. 

He would die for his brother. On any account, on any occasion. He would take a bullet for Sherlock Holmes, he would run through blistering buildings for Sherlock Holmes, he would step in the path of a train for Sherlock Holmes. There were no exceptions to this rule. 

Sherlock’s drug had habit never failed to cause Mycroft’s typically unwavering emotionless facade to falter. It was these times that brought out the human in him--Sherlock shaking and retching from withdrawal, Mycroft offering him slow sips of water from beside; Sherlock on life-support, his artificial breath humming steadily in rhythm with Mycroft’s near-silent sobs; Sherlock dumped in some squat house, covered in vomit and near unresponsive while Mycroft held his head to keep the steady heaves of sick from blocking his airway. 

There had been none of that since John, not really anway. No near-death overdoses (near-death experiences were a different case). No self-inflicted damage on such a large scale. Sherlock was a self-proclaimed “user,” not an _addict_. Of course, Mycroft called complete bullshit, but Sherlock had stayed (for the most part) clean since John.  
John. 

Since the army doctor’s rather sudden appearance in Sherlock’s life, their whole brotherly system had shifted. John and Sherlock were no longer their own separate parties, really. Sherlock had found everything he had been (unknowingly) looking for in John. They were a nonsexual (for now--Mycroft had suspicions) unit. An item. Where one went, the other seemed to follow. Of course, with Mary’s death and Sherlock’s subsequent (faked) descent into drug-induced hysteria, the unit had suffered, but remained intact in the end. 

Where Mycroft had formerly been the one picking up Sherlock’s broken pieces time and time again, John had taken this role. Of course, he didn’t mean to infringe--John wasn’t that sort of man, no--but he was perfect in every way Mycroft was not. He was _wanted_. Mycroft’s involvement had always been on his terms--Sherlock had chosen John. 

And, of course, Mycroft would do anything for Sherlock’s contentment. He wasn’t sure if his brother had the capacity to feel happiness, but from observing the two together, he saw a spark of life in Sherlock previously nonexistent. 

Mycroft would die for his brother, and now this meant that he would die for Doctor John Watson as well. He had deduced it immediately, had prepared his last words (his whole spiel on having or not having a heart). He would’ve died for John; for Sherlock. Always. 

Seeing the gun in his brother’s hands pointed at him had brought on a wave of emotions that Mycroft had not prepared himself to feel. 

He would die for Sherlock, yes, but he did not want to die by Sherlock. He would, if it meant that John and his brother would be safe, but he did not want to. 

Mycroft knew that John would come first, but to see the choice in action caused him some unpleasant emotion he didn’t know how to name. Jealousy? Regret? Sadness? Grief? 

It had been the two Holmes brothers against the world, in a way, even though they limited contact with each other there had always seemed to be an unspoken appreciation and acknowledgement of the other’s presence. John had replaced Mycroft the very first day he showed up at a crime scene with the consulting detective. 

Yes, he realized. It was grief. He was grieving the loss of the fallacy that he himself was still Sherlock’s ultimate go-to. Of course, he had known it for a while, but staring down the barrel of his brother’s gun had sealed the loss. 

Mycroft raked his hands through his thinning hair, head bowed down before the table of empty seats. The east wind was confined and heavily sedated, unable to continue her seductions. John was back at 221B. Such a goldfish ending; Moriarty was dead, Magnussen was dead, Sherlock was not exiled, and Euros was incapacitated. All was well for Sherlock, in essence.  
Mycroft felt old, and vulnerable. He was always in control, except with Sherlock. 

Sherlock seemed to take all control away. Mycroft would bend at any whim of his brother’s to keep him okay. That was not control--that was weakness. That was caring. 

Mycroft wasn’t needed to keep Sherlock safe anymore, though. 

Sherlock had John. 

Mycroft rang a bell. He wanted cake. 

 

\--- 

 

Mycroft rolled out of bed in a cold sweat, clutching his stomach as he bolted for the toilet. He had forgotten how strong they were, and taking twice the recommended dose was probably not his best idea. He was shaking in pain and exhaustion, and knew that he would be up all night now. He’d have to be in at work by 7, and this wouldn’t be over until at least six. 

He groaned at the little sheet of orange pills on his sink. 

He had _just_ weaned himself off them. 

Why did he allow himself to make such an _error_. 

 

\---

 

“You’ve gained weight,” Sherlock greets Mycroft as he enters the flat. He sets his bow and the rosin aside and looks up. He squints. “No you haven’t. You’ve lost.” 

“Thank you, Mister Holmes. Your comments on my figure are _ever_ welcome.” 

Sherlock stands. “You’ve lost a lot. Those are new trousers--did your old ones not fit? Too big for once?” 

Mycroft shifts uncomfortably. John clears his throat. “Stress,” he says offhandedly. 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. They both notice his mistake at once. Mycroft would never admit to being _stressed_. “The siren call of old habits, was it? Do we need to phone Mummy? It’s been a while since _your_ disorder has wreaked havoc with their line dancing.” 

“How mature of you, Brother Mine. I will assure you it is nothing to that scale.” 

“Hm.” Sherlock picked up his Stradivarius. “What do you want?” 

“Just checking on you. Making sure you’re _clean_. Post-traumatic stress tends to lead you back to using.” 

“I do not have post-traumatic stress. That would imply trauma. I cannot be traumatized if I do not care.” 

“But you do.” 

“And you are a terrible liar, as ever. You weren’t worried about me being back on the source. You’re _lonely_.” 

Mycroft showed himself out shortly after. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft turned to the side in front of the body-length mirror, holding his distended abdomen as if it carried a child. His body was sinking in on itself, devouring what it could find without any real sustenance. He was all angles. Except his middle, which was a protruding hump. It hurt.  
Mycroft bent over the toilet. Catharsis. Bloody knuckles. Bloody vomit. 

His mind raced, pulling up article after article from his memory. _Mallory-Weiss. Rupture. Blood loss. Death. Statistically unlikely._

He didn’t mind too much, not really. He was detached. There was only a small amount of blood. No risk of bleeding out. Not enough to be caused by a rupture. Maybe a small tear, but those typically healed on their own. 

Mycroft bent again. 

 

\---

 

“Your diet has gone awry, Mycroft.” Not a question. A statement. Sherlock barricaded Mycroft in his sitting room, John in tow. The doctor’s expression was apologetic yet firm.  
Mycroft smiled, folding his hands in his lap from his chair beside the fire. “Your concern is appreciated but unnecessary, little brother. I would appreciate it if you refrained from breaking in to my house in the future.” 

“I am inclined to be worried about your health. Wouldn’t want the British government dying of malnutrition, would we?” 

“I can assure you, I--” 

“Oh for God’s sake, Mycroft, look at you! You look dreadful--you’re gaunt and pale and cold--you hate fires!--and I haven’t seen you eat since before Sherrinford. I am not the commonwealth--I _observe_ , I can see the signs. With your history it is statistically safe to assume you are _relapsing_. John is a doctor, and he agrees.” 

Mycroft knew that he did look ill. His hands were shaking from hunger, and his skin was dry and grey from dehydration. His cheeks were swollen from damaged glad tissue from repeated exposure to stomach acid. He knew he looked ill, but he could cease this behavior at any moment. He was in _control_. He had control over his body--he could pick his appearance and maintain it. If he had wanted to maintain an overweight figure, he could do that too. The general population could not achieve such a feat--his ability to uphold to such ascetics was power. 

“Doctor Watson knows nothing of my history, Sherlock.” 

“ _Doctor_ Watson is a _doctor_. He has noticed as well.” 

“I eat. I am bettering my health; I will be careful to not agitate my previous circumstances.” 

“I contacted your minion.” 

“Anthea, as I presume you are referring to, has no--” 

“She was very forthcoming when I disclosed your history. She is _worried_. She is the single individual who spends the most time with you. She mentioned you are doing _it_ again.” 

Mycroft stood abruptly, ignoring the vertigo. He spoke in Sherlock’s direction, unseeing through the spots. He closed his eyes and growled. “Get out of my house.” 

 

\---

 

Sherlock made a second unwelcome visit that week. Mycroft was laying on the couch beside the fire, under a thick layer of blankets. He didn’t have the energy to kick Sherlock out. 

His little brother sat across from him for some time, studying him. His violin case rested at his side. Mycroft eyed it. 

“Do you mind?” Sherlock asked. His voice had an edge of sadness and insecurity to it. Mycroft pretended to not notice. 

“Please, go ahead.” 

Sherlock stood and procured his beautiful Stradivarius from its velvet-lined home. He expertly clipped on the shoulder rest, and tightened his bow. Mycroft waited for the typical sounds of Vivaldi or Paganini. 

Aram Khachaturian’s Nocturne from “Masquerade” met his ears instead. Mycroft closed his eyes. Sherlock hadn’t played this for him in years, not since-- 

Mycroft felt tears threaten to fall for the beauty and sadness Sherlock was conveying. 

Mycroft didn’t open his eyes when the piece was over, willing himself to stay composed. He did not want to see the expression that he was sure was plastered on his brother’s face--his baby brother that so rarely showed emotions. 

“Your loss,” Sherlock managed, “would break my heart.” 

Mycroft swallowed. 

The closing of a case. Footfalls out. The quiet _clink_ of a door. 

 

\--- 

 

Mycroft blindly threw the contents of his pantry on the ground, breaking open package after package of food. 

Stuffing his face. 

In a moment of _whatthefuckamidoing_ he threw half of a cake in the waste bin, only to find himself hunched over it minutes later, shovelling crumbled handfuls of cake into his mouth. 

Bathroom. Fingers down throat. Repeat. 

He wasn’t tasting the food, he didn’t even _like_ cookies really, but he couldn’t stop. 

_Where was the control now?_

Binge. 

Force vomit-covered fingers down his throat, gag, bring up the contents over and over, why was he doing this, why Mycroft? You are so _human_. 

He wasn’t wanted or needed by anyone anymore--Sherlock had John now, and no one needed him. 

He didn’t give a damn about the government--he took the position to prove himself capable and brilliant, to protect his brother, and now his brother had a new guardian. 

He could disappear and no one would notice. 

Why did he want people to notice? Since when did he care? 

Of course he cared. 

Sherlock. 

He would die for Sherlock. 

How could Sherlock have been so _willing_ to lose him? The idea of losing Sherlock was unbearable to him--why did he not have the same effect on his brother? 

_Whywashenotwanted?_

Mycroft stood on wobbly feet, strings of half-digested food dripping down his chin, shaking, fuzzy, shaking, where was-- 

 

\---

 

“Oh, fuck, oh Sir--Mr. Holmes, oh fuck, Mycroft--” 

 

\---

 

Blurry. Blinking. Beeping. 

Mycroft opened his eyes. 

Hospital. 

A tube was inserted in the blue of his elbow; more wires were wove in and out of his hospital gown, electrodes on grey flesh, in the crooks of his way too visible skeleton. He had taken it too far. 

“Myc,” a whisper. Mycroft turned his head and groaned--the throbbing pressure behind his eyes intensified. Sherlock jumped up immediately, hovering, worried wringing of his hands and a foreign unsure look about him. “Mycroft, what do you need?” 

“Water,” he croaked, his throat dry and painful. Sherlock rushed away and returned with a plastic cup. He put the rim to Mycroft’s lips and tipped it back. “Thank you,” Mycroft sighed. 

“Mycroft, please. It is too much--I--you need to evaluate this; get external aid, I don’t think,” Sherlock licked his lips, his eyes darting frantically around the room. “I did research, statistically this is not conquerable by one’s self, but professional help has been proven to provide relief and recovery in a majority of cases--please, I--” 

Sherlock collapsed beside the bed, his head on the mattress and his hands gripping Mycroft. His face was hidden, but Mycroft knew he was crying. 

Mycroft was overwhelmed with guilt, at what he had done. And what for? 

He had forgotten--hadn’t seen just how much Sherlock _still needed him_. 

“I am sorry,” Mycroft said quietly. 

“I cannot lose you, Mycroft. I love John in a way that is completely different--I need you _both_ , only in different ways. His presence in my life does not obscure my need for you. He is not your replacement. My-- _heart_ \--has grown since meeting him. There is not a smaller space for you there--there is a _new_ space for him. I am sorry for spurring this relapse. I didn’t realize that you needed me, as I am sure you didn’t realize I needed you.” 

Mycroft bit his lip. Was he that readable? He hadn’t meant for Sherlock to blame himself. He patted the space beside him. “Won’t you join me, Brother dear? We have much to discuss.” 

 

\---

 

“I love you.” 

“I--I love you, too, Sherlock.” 

 

\---

 

“It isn’t your fault--I’ve been doing this for years, it never really stopped--” 

 

\--- 

 

“I have arranged to be admitted to a residential program next week, after my release tomorrow. I will work on this.”

“Can I--would you want me to take you? Drive you, pick you up--” 

“You hardly drive--” 

“Please.” 

“Yes. That would be appreciated. Thank you, Sherlock. I--it means a great deal.” 

 

\---

 

Sherlock let himself into Mycroft’s house after a series of unanswered knocks. A pile of packed cases was set in the foyer. John collected them. 

“Mycroft?” Sherlock called out. 

No answer. 

“Mycroft!” Sherlock’s voiced inched up an octave. Worry. “John!” 

They searched the house. 

“John!” Sherlock screeched. Bathroom. 

Mycroft was naked, collapsed over the toilet bowl. His face was blue, his hands and legs covered in red and purple splotches. His eyes were open, clouded, unseeing. His body was emaciated and atrophied, but his abdomen was distended and bruised. 

He was dead. 

“John!” Sherlock yelled again, frantically dashing out of the bathroom and back. “John! John! _JOHN JOHN JOHn johnjohn he’s oh my god he’s--” Sherlock sank to grief on the floor. John sank with him, surveying, called Greg, held Sherlock. He knew the cause of death immediately, of course, knew it was a possibility, but it was _Mycroft__ , this stuff didn’t actually happen-- 

_\---_

“Mycroft Holmes. One hundred eighty-six centimeters, eight point eight stone at postmortem. Sherlock, are you sure you want to hear this?” 

Sherlock sat with his head between his knees. “Please.” 

“Alright.” John cleared his throat. “Mycroft Holmes. Presented with a BMI of under seventeen. At time of death, Mycroft Holmes’ stomach held approximately seven point two liters of food, where the maximum capacity would be four liters. Bruised appearance caused by the leaking of stomach contents and blood into body. The patient also presented with a weakened heart and early-stage kidney failure. Further examination showed, uh, hemorrhoids from laxative abuse and enamel erosion. Autopsy concluded cause of death was gastric rupture as a direct result of self-induced vomiting from Bulimia Nervosa.” John coughed. “Fuck, Sherlock, I--” 

”He was going to get help--he was--he would’ve gotten _better.”_

“I know, I know, shh, I know,” John pulled Sherlock to him, held him as he sobbed. 

“I should’ve seen--I should’ve stopped it--” 

“Sherlock, this was absolutely not your fault. Bulimia, eating disorders, they’re--this had nothing to do with you--this went so much deeper, anything could’ve triggered it, he could’ve dropped dead at any time from cardiac arrest, he’d been purging for years, this damage doesn’t happen in a month-- _it wasn’t your fault_.” 

“I want, him, back,” Sherlock moaned. 

“I know, I’m sorry, hey, I know, shh.” 

_“I needed him.”_


End file.
